The Prat and the Idiot
by Space-facade
Summary: Modernday!Merlin and Arthur lurk here. More A/N inside and I should tell you, reviews make me very happy.
1. The Beginning

**Title: - **The Beginning Part 1/?

**Author: - **Bella

**Rating: - **PG-13 (this part – R overall)

**Pairings: - **Arthur/Merlin pre-slash

**Warnings: - **Slash

**A/N: - **I have never ever written AU fic before. And very possibly with good reason. And I am aware that I have used a weird technique in this first bit, and God knows if it works but yeah. Please don't hate me 

_Prologue_

In a small, dingy flat, somewhere in the suburbs of London, a dark-haired man lies asleep, long limbs sprawled out, taking up a large proportion of the small, single bed, and a large amount of air on either side as well. One arm is slung up, and over his eyes, as though protecting himself from the world. Outside, the sun is partially risen, only thin streams of pale yellow light staining the concrete blocks, gum spattered pavements, and graffiti-stained door and walls. It is a peaceful scene, albeit extremely grungy, but peaceful nevertheless.

But then, somewhere else in the block of small, dingy flats, a baby begins to cry, as he does every morning, regular as clockwork. And this is followed swiftly (although not swiftly enough for the other residents) by the sound of footsteps and shushing, crooning songs that no-one actually hears but can imagine perfectly. And then silence reigns, and everyone can pretend they are still asleep. Except ten minutes later, at precisely ten to six, the generator goes on, with a whir and a clank, purring into life with all the smoothness of a arthritic cat, announcing to the residents that it's time to get up. Yet still, somehow everyone manages to pretend it is still night time. And they keep their eyes shut and don't stir, in the vain hope that they can fool time into thinking it's brought the new day around too quickly and, in fact, has time for a cup of tea and a kip before work continues.

Unfortunately, ten minutes after the generator's morning cry, comes the most awful wake-up call of all. At more or less the same minute in almost every flat in the block, whether it be music, radio, or just an endless crackle of static and annoying beeps, each and every alarm clock begins to ring. The response is much the same in every flat, but let us take the scene behind the peeling paint of door number seventeen as an example.

In the bedroom, the scene is no longer peaceful. As opposed to lying sprawled, the dark-haired man has withdrawn all his limbs under the covers, as if trying to protect them from the light of day – although his feet still stick out the end, the bed appears to be at least six inches too short. One arm still lies over his eyes, although his fist is now clenched, and the other is banging around to the left, apparently searching for the alarm clock, desperate to stop the piercing wail. However, his hand misses again and again, failing even to find the alarm clock, let alone the snooze button. This would be because his flat mate, knowing the important day he has, has – unbeknown to him – moved the clock to the top of the wardrobe. Then, the man bangs a little too hard, and crashes his hand hard against the edge of the bedside cabinet. It appears to have been quite painful, at least if the streams of sleep-slurred profanities that follow are anything to go by.

Still, the pain has done the trick, and after a pause, the boy rolls out of bed, with the usual lack of grace a lanky frame belies, and staggers out the door, presumably headed for the bathroom.

X

Several hours later, at a much godlier hour, a similar wake-up scenario is played out in a different London suburb. Well. I say similar, but at the end (or beginning – whichever) of the day, there are several reasonably essential differences. The first being that the scene of this wake-up call is drastically different. Yes, a London suburb, but not an old dingy flat, and most certainly not a dodgy, rundown neighbourhood. No, this is a large country house, with more rooms than there are flats in that block, and a view fit for royalty of the sunrise over Richmond Park.

It's odd we should mention royalty really because this luxurious house is the abode of one Uther Pendragon, business mogul and newly elected Mayor of London, and his son, the now publicly adored Arthur Pendragon, centre of several of his father's election campaigns – it is of popular opinion that Arthur only appears because the opposition had made use of a lady of delectable looks, and sadly Uther Pendragon's charms had not withstood the test of time particularly well. But that's just rumour.

Anyway the identities of the residents of this house bring us to the second and third essential differences. One is obviously the time. No-one on earth would dare wake Arthur Pendragon up any earlier than a time that includes double-figures (except for his father of course, but Uther is currently absent – playing the role of the 'people's Mayor' at the opening of a children's cancer hospital), and so when the dark-haired man in the small dingy flat is staggering around nursing his hand and cursing his room-mate, Arthur is still floating in dreamland, far removed from the pressing duties of the day. The third difference is the manner in which, at almost midday, Arthur is finally woken. There are no yelling infants, no generators on their last legs, and certainly no static-y alarm clocks. Instead there is a tray of bacon, eggs, croissants and coffee (judging from this spread, Pendragon junior has no qualms about his cholesterol level as do so many people in today's world), which are preceded by a gentle knock at the door, and the appearance of a quiet maid of oriental origin.

She lays the tray down with considerable care, draws the curtains as quietly as possible, lays out freshly laundered clothes and towel, and departs as swiftly as she arrived; the perfect house keeper. And then, after another leisurely doze, during which Arthur becomes slowly more aware of the world, the blond young man, swings himself sideways out of bed (with, I might add, infinitely more grace than the clumsy gentleman we met earlier), and proceeds to the heavy wooden table.

His morning then unfolds, a cup of coffee and home-cooked breakfast, a hot shower, clean clothes, already selected for him (if I was not being polite, I would perhaps make a comment relating age and ability to dress yourself – but this is the son of the London Mayor, so I will show some modicum of respect), and a half hour spent perusing the Sports pages of several different newspapers. This devastatingly wearying and absolutely necessary routine is then finally concluded at almost one o'clock, when Arthur Pendragon takes one last look in the mirror, ruffles his hair, pouts at his reflection, and steps out to face the day.


	2. An Unfortunate Turn of Events

**Title: - **An Unfortunate Turn of Events Part 2/?

**Author: - **Bella

**Rating: - **PG

**Pairings: - **Arthur/Merlin pre-slash

**A/N: - **Again, I've played around with the technique again, and I hope it works, but seeing as I've been fiddling for the last half hour, I'm just going to POST. Thanks to the people who reviewed before, you're awesome  Unbeta'ed. And a quick apology to bottlebrush because the 'generator' that is possibly not a generator comes up here again. Sorry for the error!

_Chapter 1 – An Unfortunate Turn of Events_

Whilst Arthur Pendragon enjoys his leisurely start to the day and home-cooked breakfast with its off-the-wall cholesterol count, the dark-haired young man – named, according to the nametag seen on the lapel of his scrubs, Merlin – has had rather a bad morning. After his rude wake-up call, it was discovered that apparently the busy lives of two medical students leave no time for such trivial matters as buying groceries, and there was no food in the flat except for a frozen bag of peas, which, after a moments musing he decides to place over his still-throbbing hand, as opposed to eating them for breakfast as a sort of cold, crunchy health snack.

With breakfast dismissed as not an option, he proceeds to the bathroom, showering in cold water (why is it one must always fight one's flatmate for a shower in water that isn't Arctic?), and then dresses for the day. It has been mentioned that this day is, in fact, rather an important one for Merlin, in the past few months he has been spending his spare-time-that-isn't-really-all-that-spare completing a trial period of work at the local children's hospital, at the end of which he will potentially receive the amazing award of a 'once-in-a-lifetime experience' doing some kind of medical work over the Christmas holidays. Now, Merlin isn't particularly thrilled at the idea of doing work experience over Christmas, and like any sensible person he is highly suspicious of the words 'once-in-a-lifetime experience' (I can't say I blame him really. I've always suspected it's called once-in-a-lifetime because once experienced people generally refuse to even think about it ever, ever again. But that's just my opinion), but he has been assured, by a close family friend that the work experience opportunity is above-board and indeed wonderful. And really even if not, I suspect he would have gone anyway, because collecting brownie points for our CV's is something we've all done and I sincerely doubt Merlin is much different.

But anyway, back to Merlin's important morning. Now, in order to be selected for this grand experience, Merlin is first required to achieve a level of excellence above and beyond that of his colleagues. The entire point of this internship is to build on the increasingly important 'people skills', there is little actual medical theory involved, the actual tasks have tended more towards serving breakfast, delivering medicines and running simple status checks. At the end of the three month period the winner, as such, will be the intern who is essentially, most popular with the patients – almost akin to electing Homecoming Queen, but with mint-green scrubs instead of tiaras. Now all of the interns have gone about achieving this in very different ways. Some have opted for the motherly concern, some for fatherly respect, and some for what can only be described as simpering sweet and apparently reassuring. Merlin however has opted for a technique which has included imaginary action man games, countless rounds of Candy Land and a highly humiliating hat. Different certainly, but on several occasions he has found himself called upon to calm down a distraught patient, so he is hopeful it is working.

And today is the last day of the internship, and so it is of ultimate importance that he _is not late_. Which is why, half an hour earlier than usual, we find Merlin dressed, hurrying out of the house, and headed for the tube station. The London Underground – always a joy in the morning – is packed with people of all shapes and sizes, not all of them with nice manners. Still Merlin catches his train, spends a joyful half an hour squashed between an old, bald tramp who reeks of cigarettes and sweat, and a young mother with a baby intent on sharing the contents of its stomach with the entire carriage. The suffering is only alleviated briefly when a stroppy looking teenage girl, with more makeup than clothing, attempts to get up and off at Piccadilly only to find she has sat on a large wad of gum some wonderfully thoughtful person had previously left behind. The rest of the carriage averts their eyes, and tries, probably unsuccessfully, not to smile.

When Merlin finally reaches St. Albans Paediatric Hospital, he is fed up, already weary – but quite blissfully early. This leaves him time, after changing his battered sneakers for a less battered, more colourful pair, but before the Meeting of the Day, to spend some time with Holly Greenly and Leo Clark, two of his favoured patients. As he wends his way through the brightly painted corridors towards Ward 7, there are few patients awake yet, but several of the nurses' smile and wave, a greeting he happily returns. Upon reaching Ward 7, he slips in quietly, not prepared to wake the two children if they are still sleeping, although he considers this fairly unlikely. As expected, both children are wide awake, and he is greeted by several pieces of flying Lego from Leo and a delighted cry of 'Mer-yin!' from Holly.

Holly is seven years old, and has leukaemia. She has started a course of radiotherapy, which means she spends almost half of each day lying in bed, too sick to move, tears trickling down her cheeks. She arrived at the hospital three months ago, almost at the same time as Merlin, and he had thought, before he learnt to know better, that there couldn't possibly be anything wrong with her. She had been a small girl, but bouncy, full of life, with bright eyes, equally bright autumn-hair coloured hair, and a permanent flush in her cheeks. Now however, three months of sickness and radioactive chemicals have wrought a horrible change in her. Most of her hair has fallen out, and she wears a red scarf, with twists of orange and gold thread running through it instead, and she is always pale, all cheekbones and big eyes.

The same change has occurred in Leo, another leukaemia sufferer, although it is less noticeable, as the six-year-old started off skinny, with almost-white skin and large dark eyes. His tufty black hair had survived the first round of chemotherapy, but after watching Holly's steadily fall out, more and more strands being left behind on the pillow each morning, and the girl getting increasingly upset, he had turned to Merlin and demanded to have his hair shaved, 'like Joey face has every morning'. Joey is his elder brother, and the only family he has left, since his parents died in an air crash when he was two, and he visits every day. Merlin had complied with the request, after having to fight with the Head Nurse for permission, and when Holly had returned from her daily session, she had found her companion even balder than she was and grinning broadly. Clearly this had been the start of a firm friendship between the two, and Merlin had found himself arriving early, leaving late, and skipping lunch breaks, completely won over by the strength the two children showed. They were still writing in wobbly, printed letters, yet they could probably teach the world a thing or two.

On this particular morning, both are upbeat, and Merlin is summoned to Holly's bed where he is shown a wobbly crayon drawing of her family, five figures consisting of rainbow coloured blobs and stick legs, and then to Leo's where he is shown an almost identical picture of only three figures, which after a pause and a squint are identifiable as Joey, Leo and Holly. Both are entitled 'My Family' – in Leo's case, spelt 'Famlily'. Merlin smiles brightly, and tacks both pictures to the ever-growing collage of art adorning two off the walls. Then, at Holly's insistence, he unhooks Leo's drip, and they proceed, wobbling dangerously at times, over to the little girl's bed, where Leo is tucked under a blanket, Merlin lowers himself onto a rickety chair and attempts to fold long, ungainly limbs underneath Holly's bed (it was previously ignored that in Leo's drawing he really resembles a stick insect more than is probably considered flattering), and they proceed to play several thousand hands of Snap! (with Holly shrieking louder and louder each time), and Happy Families (Leo's favourite), until Merlin's presence is requested elsewhere. He dispatches Leo back to his own bed, and departs, with instructions to behave, and a gallant sweeping bow that leaves them both giggling.

Merlin now returns to the endless maze of corridors, much busier now, with all sorts of important looking people in lab coats sweeping about, and heads for the office of the director of the hospital. Halfway there, he checks his watch, realising to his horror that the clock in Ward 7 is apparently five minutes slow, and he is already late. Breaking into a run, he dodges around cleaning ladies, inpatients, doctors, nurses and a few very disapproving looking visitors, eventually arriving on Floor 8 almost ten minutes late. Bursting into the office, he falls over the leg of a chair, and completes his entry sprawled on the floor at the feet of the hospital's Head Nurse. There is a sort of suffocating, disapproving silence for about five seconds, whilst he lies slightly stunned on the floor, but then with a cough and a blush flourishing high on his cheeks, he scrambles to his feet, murmurs an apology and scurries for the back of the room, to stand with the other interns.

After two or three more horrifically awkward seconds, during which, I suspect Merlin would quite welcome the floor swallowing him, the director shakes his head in what might be amusement but might equally be disapproval and turns back to the Board of Trustees.

'And now that our final intern has arrived,' - there is no need to indicate or introduce Merlin, at this point everyone in the room is perfectly aware of whom he is – 'I would like to begin by saying that everyone involved in this program has worked extremely hard, and each and every one of them has displayed an integrity and a dedication that this hospital and all others like it have come to value highly in their staff. Now while each of you,' – at this point he turns towards the interns – 'have enjoyed varying modicums of personal success, the decision on who to award the six months of work experience to was unanimous.'

At this point, the Head Nurse closes her eyes, as if praying for strength and an odd feeling begins to unravel in Merlin's gut. The director smiles, but it looks very forced and more like a grimace.

'And so without further ado, I would like to offer this great opportunity to a young man who has shown great intuition, care, and,' – at this point he winces, as if he really does not want to say the words – 'tact, when dealing with all of our patients, and who has been named by many as a personal favourite. We congratulate him on his successes and wish him luck and further success during the next six months. Merlin Emrys!'

The enthusiasm is limited in both the director and the Head Nurse, but the Board of Trustees and the rest of the interns clap enthusiastically enough, although one little old lady to the left does wince when Merlin trips over his own feet for the second time and jabs the director in the stomach as opposed to shaking his hand. Merlin receives an information package, and a certificate thing, and a report on his progress during the time he has spent at the hospital, and then the interns are dispatched to say farewell to any patients they should choose before going home.

For Merlin, the rest of the day disappears in a blur of sorting out paperwork, accepting congratulations, clearing out three months of accumulated crap from his locker and saying goodbye to all the patients. Several of them cry when he says he is leaving, Holly and Leo included, and Holly has drawn him a strange picture of a blue flower, which bewilders Merlin until he is informed by Leo it is a forget-me-not and by the end of the day Merlin is feeling fairly tearful himself, a fact he attempts to ignore as it is definitely not very 'macho'.

There is no particular feeling of success for him, he feels a bit stunned that he has been selected really, and in all honesty a wee bit disappointed because he really liked his job at St. Albans. But, regardless of all this he finds himself traipsing all the way back to see the director at four o'clock to receive the details of his next placement. The director issues another strained smile when he appears, and gestures to a seat. Merlin collapses gratefully into it, and then listens as the director outlines where he will be working. Despite himself Merlin finds it hard to dampen the enthusiasm that begins to grow inside him as the project is explained. It sounds wonderful.

Apparently, the new Mayor of London, (Uther Pendragon you will remember), has decided to open a new centre for disabled and terminally ill children, based just outside London. The centre will be a place where children such as these can spend a day out, with specially trained aids to care for them, and will be equipped with such activities as horse-riding, a simplified high-wire and abseiling course, and a few fairground rides. There will also be less specialised activities like a bowling alley, and a petting zoo. Construction was begun many months prior and now the centre is ready for opening. Merlin's opportunity, apparently, will be to work closely alongside the two main-co-ordinators of the centre, getting it up and running smoothly and helping out with the medical side of it, including dealing with the first customers.

It's an undeniably brilliant idea, and excitement appears to grow inside Merlin at the thought of it, but he still has just one question.

'You said, the, um, the Mayor of London has paid for construction and designed it?'

The director nods briskly, somehow managing; just from this up-down motion to imply that Merlin is somehow simple minded.

'Well, I won't be um, working under him will I?'

The question earns an eye-roll from the director, and brisk statement indicating that the Mayor is much too busy and important to actually ever run a centre like that and surely anyone could have worked that out for themselves. He then fixes his first real smile onto Merlin, and suspicions are instantly aroused – and then confirmed, when Merlin is informed that he will in fact be working under _Arthur _Pendragon, Uther's son. Horror slowly unfurls across Merlin's face, but beaming the director cuts across any protests, thanks him for his time and hard works and ushers him swiftly from the room.

X

Later that same evening, after surviving another horrendous tube journey, this time without any chewing gum incidents to invoke amusement, Merlin finds himself back home. The generator is no longer whining and appears to have broken down completely in the time he has been gone. On the up side his flat mate, a young black woman named Gwen, has somehow found the time to shop, and they sit down in the cold, dark flat (lack of electricity can play havoc in the twenty first century) to a bowl of Coco-Pops each and a glass of iced tea. Needless to say, Merlin's mood does not improve.

Gwen however, does not appear to have picked up the desperate-for-any-kind-of-sympathy vibe Merlin is emitting, and merely looks at him blankly when he tells her he is required to work amiably with Arthur Pendragon for six months. In fact, she barely responds beyond shrugging her shoulders and taking another mouthful, and Merlin is forced to expand, detailing to Gwen the fact that Arthur Pendragon is a selfish, stuck-up, arrogant _prat _who cannot possibly care about disabled children and with whom he _cannot _work with for six months. Now Gwen is raising her eyebrows in disbelief and asking him how the hell would he know? With the air of one admitting to sordid affairs with underage girls, Merlin confesses they went to school together. Gwen raises an eyebrow in disbelief and once they have argued for half an hour about the various truthful merits of this disclosure, she accepts that perhaps he does know that Arthur is a prat _then_, but people change. Merlin merely fixes her with a gloomy look, and shakes his head.

But even now, instead of sympathy Gwen merely smiles and goes a frustratingly girly pink, saying,

'Well. He might be a royal prat, but at least he's a _pretty _prat, eh Merlin?'

And then she nudges him, in the ribs, hard, in a way that one would presume is meant to be suggestive. Merlin groans and buries his head in his hands.


End file.
